Damian

You met her by chance, through a post online. At first, there were occasional messages, then daily texts, voicemails until late at night, shared jokes and secrets. You knew almost everything about each other, except one thing: what laughter sounds like in person and what a real hug feels like.

And one day, you made up your mind. You bought a ticket. You packed your bag. You told yourself you could handle it. It was your first trip alone to another city—to visit someone you'd never seen outside of the screen.

The train was quiet. Fields stretched out beyond the window, stations followed one another, and inside you were a clenching sensation of excitement. You couldn't believe you were actually traveling.

At one of the stops, a guy sat down next to you. Calm, attractive, with a focused look.
“Damian,” he introduced himself briefly, showing the ticket.

He spent most of his time on his phone. You didn't want to push him and pulled out some chenille wire. You wanted to make your friend a small bouquet of lilies—you couldn't go in for fresh flowers, since she'd meet you right at the station.

— Do you mind if I unpack my things?
“I don’t mind,” he answered without looking up.

The train rocked gently, and you carefully twisted the petals. After a while, he finally asked how you did it and why. Hearing about your friend, he paused, then asked you to teach him. He was also on his way to see a girl and didn't want to arrive empty-handed.

You moved closer, twirled the wire together, laughed at the uneven petals, and drank tea. His bouquet was neat—he tried.

They were already waiting for you on the platform. Your friend hugged you tightly and pressed the lilies to her chest, beaming with happiness.

Damian stood at a distance and called. At first, there was no answer. Then a man picked up. The conversation was brief. When the call ended, he stood motionless—in a strange city, with a bouquet in his hands and an emptiness inside.

He came up to you.
"Thank you for teaching me. But it doesn't matter now."

And he held out the flowers.
"The meaning changes," you replied. "But it doesn't disappear."

Sometimes a trip planned for one person becomes the beginning of a completely different story.